Before Sunrise
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: This is the first Quasi fic I ever wrote, way back in 1997 when I first got the video. It describes Quasimodo's thoughts and activities before ringing the bells each morning. Mix of Hugo's Hunchback and Disney's HoND.


The sun had not yet peered over the horizon, but the young man was already stirring on his plank bed. Indeed, it was only slightly wider than himself, about a foot longer. The mattress consisted of a linen bag of chopped straw, which was barely softer than the planks themselves. The blanket was of wool, yet old, moth-eaten and full of holes. The bed was hard, yet what he was used to; this was the only bed he had ever known.  
  
For several moments his eyes followed the purposeful, yet graceful, movements of a spider weaving it's web amongst the beams which criss- crossed above his head, illuminated by the first rays of dawn. Such beauty often ignored, or deemed disgusting by those unable to stand back and look with objective eyes. Tensing the muscles of his face into the odd contortions of a yawn, he cleared the dried tears from his eyes with large fingers. Arching his back forward, he stretched his arms out behind himself, flexing his powerful muscles which trembled with their own strength. After relaxing his shoulders, the beginnings of a smile crept across his face; the pigeons were greedily eating what had been left out from last night's meal.  
  
Reluctantly swinging his right foot from underneath the cover, the calloused soles of his large foot met the dampened plank floor. Rising from his makeshift bed, the young man shivered slightly from the chill of the early morning, drawing his yellowed tunic close around his misshapen body. It was May, yet still cold enough to bring shivers in the early morning. His hands gently flattened the tattered blanket back over the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkles. He then limped over to his table, where a basin of water, his clothes and other items lay waiting.  
  
Dipping his hands into the chilled basin of rainwater, he softened the edges of an egg-shaped ball of soap between them. After spreading the thick lather over his angular face, he unsheathed a four-inch straight razor that, until now, had laid by the basin. The blade in his large hand gently peeled the soft layer of stubborn red hairs from his face. The movements were smooth, rhythmic and well practised; nearly mechanical. Overturned and covered with dust, his mirror lay unused behind the basin of washwater and a small wooden comb. He had ceased use of the mirror as soon as he had become familiar enough with the contours of his face that this daily chore could be completed without it.  
  
It had been at least three years since the mirror had been used, judging by the thick coat of dust and bird droppings that blanketed it. His gaze drifted to it's resting place. Images of that day flooded the man's mind. The first time he had seen his own face clearly. True, he had been told every day that he was hideously ugly and a monster, run his hands over his face many times and seen faint, rippling reflections of himself in pools of water. However, nothing could have prepared him for what he would see in that mirror. He had locked his gaze into his own eyes, drawing his right hand downward over his eyes, nose and lips, as he slowly shook his head. The tears that started to form, but refused to fall, as he observed his countenance for the first time, and realized that the words he had been told each day of his life were true.  
  
Glancing upwards, the last of the red growth was swept away. Lowering his chin once more, he stared at the silver glint of the blade, which looked much like his carving tools. His right eyebrow lifted as he watched the blade sparkle as his clothed hand carefully cleaned it of stubble and lather. The blade made a soft clunk as it met with the hardened wood of the table. When exactly had he started shaving? Not even he knew the answer. One day he had been brought the razor, a mirror and shown how to use it. Why he shaved was another question that tormented his mind. What was the point? He'd never met anybody other than the churchmen who would sometimes visit him to bring him the occasional meal, and his guardian. His guardian, who preferred to be called "master", had even forbid him from leaving the tower. Regardless, he preferred to feel the smoothness of his chin to the roughness of a beard. Indeed, it had never grown in and was thus foreign to him.  
  
Carefully placing his yellowed tunic on the table, he held the washrag above the water, glancing into it's blackness. A pale face with red hair looked back at him, misshapen and distorted, visible under the rays of early dawn creeping into the tower which pierced the darkness in dust- filled ribbons. Turning his head to the floor, and tightly closing his eyelids, he plunged the rag into the water, soaking it.  
  
After washing his face he began working down his body starting with his arms. Reaching far back as he could, he struggled to reach every part of his back, letting out a sigh as he did so. As athletic as he was, something as simple as washing his back was a challenge. Thoughts streamed through his mind as he cleansed his misshapen body. What if everything had been different? If God had made his legs the same length, his back straight, and his face appear more like that of other men? What if he hadn't been born a monster? Would he still be here, alone, in this tower? Would someone actually love him?  
  
Absent mindedly, his hands began to course over his body, soaking up droplets of water into the large thick linen sheet which served as towel. Again, it was a mystery as to why he underwent this washing ritual whenever the rain filled his basin. He had done it as far back as his memory reached. It felt good to rid himself of the dust and sweat, especially in the heat of summer, so it continued. His master would leave balls of soap whenever he ran out. His master washed, as it was he who insisted the young man did so. Many of the churchmen, however, did not; Master had told him this ages ago. The young man assumed this to be the reason they smelled so strongly.  
  
Eyes half closed, he stared down at his naked body, ending his glance at his feet. They were well-formed enough, but large and set out at an angle. His toes pointed inward, other men's pointed straight ahead and were not nearly so wide.His crooked knees were angular and bony. The muscles of his legs, although immensly strong and functional, appeared far different from any other legs he had seen. His calves bulged with muscling, forming a mass that could easily be referred to as being rock-hard. His upper legs lacked this bulk, yet still large compared to those of more typical men, showing many thin, sinewy ridges and grooves that dissappered and reappeared as he moved his feet. His arms were built in a similar fashion. Large hands, gargantuan forearms and smaller, sinewy upperarms that appeared disproportionate to the arms and hands further down.  
  
Draping the towel over the edge of the table, his hands returned to him with his green shirt, brown pants and shoes. He carefully lifted each foot into the pants, which were stiff from having been washed yesterday. Fingering his tunic his eyes threatened to water, yet burned instead. This shirt was fairly new and freshly washed, yet had already stretched to accomodate his unusual shape. He pulled it over his head, tying it around his waist with a thin strip of leather.  
  
Having dressed himself, he put his oversized feet into the soft leather shoes. Finally, he picked up the small wooden comb from the table, and carefully removed the few knots from his red mane. It was getting long, and would be cut again soon. His master always cut it when it got this long. "Why" was something, that, once again, coursed through the young man's mind. Yet all the other men he had seen had their hair cut in a similar way. Perhaps it was what all men did. The comb landed on the table, beside the razor, with a faint thud.  
  
His hair hung down on either side of his face, softly framing his blue eyes and pale skin. He pulled the hair covering the left side of his face behind his ear; it was hard enough to see out of that eye, let alone with a red curtain over it. He left the hair on the right since it was not a bother to him; besides, it was not quite long enough to stay back even if he had moved it.  
  
Setting his yellow tunic and towel into the basin, he lathered them up with the same ball of soap and scrubbed them between his hands. Wringing out the last drops of water, he placed them over two of the gargoyles outside the tower, to dry. The water he dumped into one of the many drainspouts which emptied into the Siene. He placed the basin under a higher drain, which would collect the morning dew and any rain as it ran off the roof. Tomorrows washwater.  
  
Finally, finished with this morning routine, the sun was beginning to show itself above the horizon, he climbed up the ladder to greet Big Marie and her sisters, and awaken the rest of Paris to a new day. 


End file.
